Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  "We have another mission for you," Andair said from across the center of the table. Only a chalice was set out on the table in front of him. He picked it up, sat back, and took a sip of its contents.

  "Refresh my memory of your meeting with Frost," Gentaff said. He was seated as usual to Andair's left, an empty table before him. Jons recalled the earlier meeting for his lords, including something of the warning Frost had issued. He couldn't help forcing a thick gulp down his throat as he finished with the worse of it, and waited to learn whether his choice of words had earned him any censure.

  "Ah, yes, Frost's warning," Gentaff said. Jons blinked as he noticed that now Gentaff was holding a wooden device in his hands, small blocks hooked together somehow. He moved them about methodically. "What was it he told you—precisely?"

  Jons was anything but eager to repeat the exact words, but he saw little choice. "That it is by his grace that Andair lives, and that the Demon Blade will never be of use to either of you."

  "And that I would be destroyed if I attempted to prove otherwise?" Gentaff added.

  "Y—yes," Jons said, growing even more nervous. He didn't like being the bearer of bad news. Though, unfortunately, he was not quite done yet. "He said also, I believe, that no price could be set." At least that arrived on a slightly less personal note. He waited, trying to look as penitent as possible without looking pitiful as well, while Andair and Gentaff exchanged unreadable looks. Then Gentaff got up and made his way slowly to Andair's side, where he bent to the sovereign's ear and spoke too quietly for Jons to hear.

  The king nodded several times, then muttered something in return. Then he focussed again on Jons. "We had a visitor just this morning. A boy from an eastern village. Shassel's village, I believe, or thereabouts. He came to see Gentaff on Frost's behalf to arrange a meeting between the two of them. A private meeting, somewhere else, so that they could discuss the Demon Blade among themselves. Of course Gentaff came to me just afterward. We decided to send the boy back with a reply. But not alone. You and a small guard will go with him and see that our message is heard. We are inviting Frost to come here to Weldhem, and guaranteeing his safety, so that we might hear him out."

  "He may not accept," Gentaff said.

  Andair nodded. "It is unlikely he will."

  "So we must force him to come here," Gentaff said. "We have worked out a plan."

  "Which is why you will be followed by one of my captains and several of his best men," Andair said, while Gentaff turned again toward his own chair. "They will know what to do when the time comes, but I want you to be the one to give the order. You have a talent for following, observing and speaking with Frost, all without getting killed in the process. Not many can say as much."

  "Not many," Gentaff added. Jons tried to swallow again. It wouldn't go down.

  Andair leaned forward, a look of deepened concentration on his face, then he clenched a fist and thumped it heavily on the table. "Frost must come to us, but we must make the terms. Only then will he bargain . . . umm, correctly."

  "And there is always a price," Gentaff said, looking at Jons but speaking more to Andair, as far as Jons could tell. "Just as there is always a cost. The trick is knowing what they are."

  Both men nodded at the same time, and Jons felt something churn inside him—though it was a momentary discomfort at worst, probably explained by a lack of breakfast. He straightened, grinned, and bowed at the waist. They grinned back, first at him, then to one another. He had worked hard to gain Andair's notice and elevate himself to a position worthy of his own talents. This is an opportunity for everyone, he thought. For himself, this was only the beginning.

  He tried to match the haughty grins on the others' faces; it would take practice, but he was more than willing. "What would you have me do?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dorin tossed a ball of freshly wadded bread to Dara, whispering to it as it sailed free, and Dara caught a ripe, red apple an instant later.

  "Good," Frost said. The trick was to fashion a piece of edible fruit, and not simply a lump of something that had changed color and consistency. "Take a bite," he told her. Dara examined the apple briefly, then bit into it. She nodded approval as she slurped and chewed.

  Frost stepped forward, away from the shade of the cottage and the trees that stood tall behind it, and took the apple from Dara's hand. He held the loaf of bread out to her next. She dug into the bread with her fingers and came away with a fistful.

  "Your turn," Frost said. She made the toss and spoke the phrases precisely as Frost had taught her, and Dorin caught an apple of his own. Without being told he took a bite. His glowing expression said the rest.

  "Now, the other way, Dara first," Frost said, handing the bitten apple back to her.

  She threw her apple at Dorin and watched it become a wad of bread once more. "Now, you try," Frost told Dorin. His apple spun through the air, bright red, turning pale brown as it went. Just as it reached Dara it turned red once more. She caught the apple's unexpected weight awkwardly.

  "I don't understand," Dorin said, while Dara held the fruit up for their mutual examination.

  They both turned at the sound of Frost's chuckle. "It was me," Frost said. "I changed it with a spell of my own, as I knew precisely the spell you had used. But even if I had not, I might have guessed at the spell closely enough and contradicted it all the same. Both of you need a true binding phrase, one that will make the spell your own and fixes it, so that it cannot be altered or undone. I have my own, as does Shassel. But it is not so simple as choosing a word or two. First, you must each find the phrase that is right for you. That will be a beginning. Over time you will strengthen it, layer upon layer, until no power on earth can violate its truthfulness. It will take years, but both of you can do it, and you must start now. I will help you."

  "Why hasn't Shassel ever shown us this?" Dorin asked without charity. The same question appeared on Dara's face.

  "There is much I never showed you," Shassel said from the cottage doorway. She stepped outside, still in shadow, but did not come further. "You were young and foolish, both of you, at least until something like a few days ago, I think. And since your father's death I have been afraid of what you might do if you thought you had true sorcerer's powers. You hardly knew anything when you ran off and tried to teach the King of all Worlish a lesson."

  "That was different," Dorin said.

  Shassel scowled at him. "Was it?"

  She stopped short of blaming the twins for their father's death, but the implication hung in the air between them. After a moment the silence began to make Frost uneasy.

  "There is more to it than that," he said. "Part of the problem is that she is old, tired and cranky, and spends too much of her time alone in the forest, where only trees and birds stand to benefit from her wisdom—" Frost looked decidedly down his nose at her. "—or suffer from it."

  Shassel had venom in her eyes as she focussed on Frost. "Yes, something like that," she muttered, and then she stuck out her tongue.

  "Ah, yes, and she is rude as well," Frost said. "But we try not to notice."

  "Or set a better example," Shassel replied.

  "But we saw you use Shassel's binding phrase at her cabin in the forest," Dara said, moving past the banter.

  "Yes," Frost said. He favored her with a smile. She is keen enough, he thought, as is Dorin. Which was making his attempts to teach them much more enjoyable than he might once have imagined. "Understand," he went on, "I have known her binding phrase for almost as long as my own, and while it does not suit me well, I can wield it if I must. As with anything, time and practice are the keys."

  Dorin and Dara nodded, satisfied.

  Good, Frost thought. A good day. Though this was only the start. The task of teaching these two to be capable, responsible mages within whatever limits they had been born to seemed completely enormous in Frost's mind, something that should have taken place one step at a time over a dozen years or more. But it had not, and nei
ther of the twins had any reservations about telling him as much whenever it came up, which was often enough. He had a personal understanding of what it was like to lose your father and go begging to learn from others. That thought alone outweighed any bitterness they would show him.

  "You are setting a different example there, Frost," Shassel said, pausing until she held his gaze once more.

  He hated to ask. "How?"

  "You say you are good at using what resources you can find, but you do not care whether you have any right to them." She made no attempt to hide her evil grin.

  Frost grinned in kind. "You taught me well."

  Shassel eyed him narrowly. "Perhaps I need to teach you another thing or two."

  "I fear it would tax you unduly."

  "How considerate."

  "Someone is coming," Dara said.

  Frost found her gesturing toward the road beyond the village. He recognized the boy who jogged toward them: Muren, the very one he'd sent to Weldhem to speak with Gentaff just a few days ago. The boy had made good time. Frost pulled at the bag slung from his shoulder and fished inside. His hand came out holding four copper coins, the rest of the boy's payment, as promised. He held the coins out as Muren fetched himself up in front of Frost and the others. Muren snatched the coins eagerly, then bent over and placed his hands on his knees while he tried to catch his breath.

  "Take your time," Frost said. "Then tell me everything you can. Leave nothing out."

  "I have returned with . . . another," Muren said, still gasping too much. "I did as you asked. I gave Gentaff your message. He sent me back with a young lord . . . and his guard. He is called Jons."

  "And where are they?" Frost asked, glancing up the road but seeing no one.

  "Waiting," Muren answered. "I, that is, he . . ."

  "Very well." Frost placed one hand on Muren's shoulder to calm him. "I believe I know this Jons. What did Gentaff tell you?"

  "Nothing. Jons has his reply, and that of Andair, I think."

  Shassel stepped closer now. "How many soldiers has this Jons brought with him?"

  "Only four," Muren said. "He says . . . he wishes to meet with the sorcerer Frost, but only in open fields, where no traps can be set by either of you. He said he will wait for one full day. By dusk tomorrow he will return to Weldhem."

  "Which field?" Frost asked.

  "Near Greldon Manor, half a day's walk," Muren said, pointing back up the road, west, toward Weldhem.

  "If we leave now we can be there before dark," Frost said. The boy nodded.

  "Frost," Dorin said, turning quite serious. "Let him come to you. We owe Andair nothing, at least nothing good or fair, and we owe those who serve him even less. As for Gentaff—" He paused, then he cleared his throat mightily, leaned to one side, and spit on the ground.

  "All true," Frost replied. "But this has little to do with things right or fair, or even what is owed. There is much more at stake."

  "You should not go all the same," Shassel told Frost. "Such an offer is not to be trusted."

  "If Gentaff is with them I will sense it, and face the challenge. If he is not, then Jons and his men are the only ones who need worry."

  "If you insist on going, I am going with you," Shassel said.

  "Jons asked about you, and said you would be welcome," Muren said. "He said some of what his lord and Gentaff wish him to say will be of great concern to you."

  "Then you should not go," Frost said.

  Shassel frowned at him. "Why not?"

  "As you say, nothing that comes from Andair or Gentaff can be trusted. You should suspect his motives now more than ever."

  "Oh, I see," Shassel huffed. "You are somehow special, and I am to be coddled. Poor old woman. Well, that may be true in part, but I am going."

  "There is no need," Frost assured her. "My Subartans will be with me. They know this kind of situation well, and so do I."

  "They will be with us," Shassel said, serious now.

  "We are going too," Dara said, stepping nearer her great-aunt and great-uncle. Dorin wasted no time in moving to stand in solidarity with his sister.

  "No!" Shassel commanded. "Not you two."

  "Absolutely not," Frost agreed. "I will have more than enough to worry about."

  The twins began immediately to protest. Shassel silenced them. "You both will stay, and wait, and leave this to Frost and myself, and that is the end of it," she said, with a fury Frost had not seen in ages, though the memory came clearly to him now. "You are being selfish," she added. "Frost is right, we should not divide our attentions between those we must face and those we must protect, no matter your will. More than that, think! If no one stays behind, then who will come after us if we do not return? If something goes wrong, what hope is there?"

  Dorin and Dara considered her words with obvious weight for a moment, then they exchanged a brief and troubled look.

  "Say whatever you both are thinking," Shassel insisted.

  "Shassel," Dara said, biting at her lower lip.

  "I'm listening."

  "If you do not return, you and Frost and the Subartans, we fear there will be nothing we can do."

  Shassel nodded. "Exactly true. I wondered whether you would say as much. But that changes nothing. There is hope, and the lack of it. So long as you remain, there is hope."

  The twins slowly nodded, and Frost felt a twinge of relief; beyond seeing the truth, they had each been sobered by the seriousness of things, instead of brushing it aside. There was hope indeed.

  "You must swear by the Greater Gods that you will not follow," Shassel insisted. Solemnly, Dorin and Dara did just that.

  "Good," Shassel said. "If we are finished chatting, we can be on our way." She turned to Frost. "Where are those two Subartans of yours?"

  "Out hunting," he said. "But I can call them to return. I have a way."

  "Another trick I taught you, as I recall," Shassel told Frost.

  "Teach us that as well?" Dara asked.

  Frost sighed. "Why must you insist on taking credit for every good piece of sorcery I command?"

  "Do I?"

  "Yes."

  "Either one of you, teach us," Dorin insisted.

  "We will, when we return," Shassel replied.

  "And much more," Frost promised. "As you will see."

  The twins agreed, somewhat crestfallen, and Frost followed Shassel inside.

  * * *

  Captain Trellish felt his knees crack as he knelt in the brush among the trees and peered into the distance toward the cottage. Sitting still like this, the bugs had been fierce; he'd already worn his arms slack swatting at them, waiting while the boy delivered his message. He much preferred a straight-ahead task—confronting a quarrelsome baron or two or even going on patrol along the Grenarii border—to all this sneaking about and hiding. Frost and the others were far enough away that Trellish found it hard to tell exactly who was who, and what was what, but he dared not get any closer. Dared not tip his hand and take a chance on failing his mission. Trellish didn't abide failure in himself or his men, but Andair bore it with even less grace.

  Not that Trellish hoped for better. What monarch was not imperious? What pleasure was there to be had from being lord over other men, if lives did not hang on your word and whim? If men did not fear you? Andair had always been that way, flitting from one idea to another, one game to another while never growing fond of losing at any; and since the sorcerer Gentaff had come to Worlish, Andair had gotten worse. But in his place, Trellish would have been no different, that was sure. Regardless, he was master of soldiers, one of Andair's most favored captains, and that was close enough.

  He slapped another insect, a bloody one he saw, as he pulled his palm away from his neck. As he watched the large fellow, the one he'd decided must be Frost, and two older youths who must certainly be Dorin and Dara, he saw them joined by an old woman. Muren, the messenger boy sent by Frost and since sent back with Jons, arrived just as they had planned, soon after that.

&nb
sp; Trellish motioned to his men once more to stay quiet. He'd brought twenty soldiers in all, and keeping them still and out of sight these past two days had been no easy task. Now they grew restless, between the bugs and the first signs of progress since leaving home; he knew exactly how they felt.

  He watched intently as the boy talked with Frost and the others. Soon they all disappeared inside the cottage. By the time they emerged once more they were joined by a pair of formidable looking warriors and a close discussion took place. Trellish found himself waiting again, watching, swatting. Finally most of the group took to the road, headed west, though two of them stayed behind. . . .

  Trellish waited still longer to be sure which two, squinting to see, then nodding to himself as he concluded that they were the two younger ones, the twins Andair and Gentaff had sent him for.

  When he was sure Frost and the others had journeyed far enough away so as not to be a threat, he breathed a double sigh. Things were happening, and going well. The old sorcerer Gentaff had worked his magic on Trellish and his men, some kind of spell intended to make them difficult to notice whether by magery or, somehow or other, simply seeing them on the road. It was not foolproof, more like lurking in shadows even when you were not, but the peasants they had encountered on the journey here had seemed quite confused, as though they weren't sure whom they were talking to, or where, or even about what.

  Trellish didn't particularly trust sorcery; it was a strange, unfathomable thing that seemed often to do more harm than good, a thing more easily corrupted than a two-coin mercenary. But he was certain this odd bit of spell-working would prove more useful than most, especially if the twins were any sort of minor mages themselves—which, according to Andair, they apparently fancied themselves.